


;;-->> cadence pooling

by Black



Category: Deus Ex (Video Games), Deus Ex: Mankind Divided
Genre: Death, Erotica, Live, M/M, Poetry, Sexual Content, living again, prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-30 22:58:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20454953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black/pseuds/Black
Summary: nouns, verbs, and adjectives.





	;;-->> cadence pooling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anomalee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anomalee/gifts).

> i wrote this for my dear adam
> 
> and that's my presentation to the class thank you, professor. i will now return to my thousand-year slumber. 
> 
> ps: these pieces focused on rhythm rather than solely on content.

* * *

**Sa·la·cious:**

_[ adjective ]_

of having or conveying undue or inappropriate interest in sexual matters like Ivan’s hands down his hips, down his thighs, breath held carefully in his throat as if to not startle it all away. fleeting. are you afraid now of losing, Adam Jensen?

of toes curling, cheeks flushed as thumb knock against knees and he inhales and he inhales and he inhales and his thoughts whirl around fingers inside of him and a mouth around his cock…which bobs in response against Ivan’s cheek, hot tongue meeting the tip and his brows knit heavily as fingers hook behind knees and pull him forward.

of shoulders hitting blanket hitting leather, of blades crossed as mischief, written in tongues

against skin, against machine and metal and man and Adam’s chest arches as his fingers find hair and pull. his head is far ahead and there are thoughts of teeth in his thigh and drawing feelings to the surface of synthesis and belly heavy headiness - pulling blood as his hips arch into their punishing and

of waking up. brows knitting heavily as Ivan’s makes a racket in the early morning light - cooking likely. Adam’s hand falls immediately to his cock and squeezes, heat beating down his neck as he averts his eyes to the bedspread and the rumbled sheets and there’s a squeeze and

of beading.

of sexual matters and salacious hesitations instead of nightmares as had been, as gold dusts the air with his fleeting recognition of folding. falling. discovery.

* * *

**Teeth**:

_[ noun ]_

an appetite or liking for a particular thing - a color, a feeling, the arching of skin under tooth and teeth and fang and fight. Ivan bristles, claws stabbed into the sheets and he snaps his teeth at everything and nothing and Adam has him under some sort of spell.

a hunger, heresy, a heaving of ribs and rumbling around hearts as hands cuff his wrists and the fabric bunches under their weight.

sighing down his skin, neat and heavy and holding. warping.

hoodie hooked under his chin and chest pattering pattering picked apart with affection-craved teeth.

a heart hammering, a cock hammering against his hip as his body feeds into reaction and his eyes pinched close. carefully.

Adam fixates. tongue up his jaw. the new sensation stinging on skin, chewing. chewing. thoughtfully.

fangs press against forehead to claim to calm him and brows raise -

eyes opening to meet paraselene. primal. dogging around the question and only dancing the demand. Ivan arches. appetite begins again.

* * *

**In·som·ni·ac:**

_[ noun ]_

a person who is regularly unable to sleep and counts beats and counts beats and

five four three

and there’s pouring down pages and blades across stages in dreams and - no, the points of this is to talk about the lack of and the slack in shoulders on bad days under heavy clouds and

rain.

it can also be an adjectively, objectively. used to describe the same, but without attachment, wound in the tongues and teeth of Adam Jensen and his cups of coffee or Ivan Berk and his wrench tap tap tapping to the

beats, the beats. the beatings -

no.

five four three

there’s an insomniac alibi in the outer halo of hexing, sitting up at night and watching the stars and knowing that sleep will come to the bleating of sheep. the bleeding of threes and force the cup of tea down to wash away the rain and find your fives in the

folly of skin, lacing toying fingers as the glass gives shine to the droplets winning races under rightful rains - coupling twos and tangling fears and foes and all of the forces that forced us to find solace in ones

and beats and beats and

beats, arms around necks and foreheads pressed to foreheads and

forgoing sleep.

* * *

**su·per·no·va:**

_[ noun ]_

a star that suddenly increases greatly in brightness because of a catastrophic explosion on the tip of his tongue, head hung over as he inhales the soft, coast air and stares out into the salting sea. the rocks are white. it broils out as laughter, simmers down as burnt caramel, and his yellow car is stark against black pavement.

words are spacey between them, the morning mist phasing between them and Adam takes a sip from his cardboard cup and Ivan can smell the coffee. the traces of cinnamon. the trees. he’s so hazy, swaying against the sadness the sand and the wind. the waxing. the waning.

the sky has lost another star. he falls back against the hood of his car. he stares. stirs. and startles, eyes lidding in the sleepiness of a long nights drive with a rather hard straight of road to still crawl. why?

combustion, spontaneous and purposeful. an escape, an explosion. piecing themselves apart and heaping their masses back together with mastery. control given back in a baseless world. california is pleasantly discordant, the dissonance barreled with roaring waves and another cinnamon roll pulled from black leather and

drifting. to sea. to catastrophe. atrophy. yellow paint and

star blood, dusting galaxies and beaches and baseless boys looking for comfort within blasphemous humidity.

* * *

**ex·trap·o·late**

_[ verb ]_

to predict by projecting past experience or known data - transitive in nature and breathing in deep as he looks in the mirror and squeezes the edges of the sink. trust only yourself, Adam repeats to himself with heavy eyes and a swimming pool soul, sinking into the deep end as the ocean eats him whole and he refuses hands to help thinking

they’ll push him deeper - they have before. it makes sense to walk the world with sleepy eyes and figments of imagination stabbed into a hesitant heart. cold gold. seamed and seeming to see the world in lackluster lullabies, falling asleep to gunshots at night and ripping the sheets with dreams to vivid he thought he could vomit the blood rushing to his sinking head.

again.

caught in whirls and winding halls, slowly filling up with salt as he stares at angels and watches them so they don’t move any closer because last time he swore he saw an angel, it sawed his spine apart.

we teeth data apart and apply it to life to avoid hurt and heart and dogs snap at hands that have before beat them so why would we think any different than the hands that have been inside of hollowed-out stomachs filled with chlorine and broken glass? galloping, pounding at the ground as he runs and stops in front of the sun and

only glances at the yellow shadow it casts just beside him. teeming. the grass is warm against his feet and he narrows his eyes at a prospective

nightmare - not a dream. it creeps up the rocky walls and echoes down those salted halls and Adam feels fabric just beyond his sheepish reach. Just beyond the limits of sleep. clouds clearing and the sky lifts away to fracture into another life, another time where gold pieces him back together and he trusts

another color foreign to him. standing in the shallow end of his swelling soul, the steps concrete below his feet and the world bends before his open arms. arabian nights and golden stories with needled spines but

in a moment of concise clarity, wishing for the childish wildness of unpredictability,

well, Adam extends to the conclusive sun. 

* * *

**ma·ca·bre:**

_[ adjective ]_

In works of art, macabre is the quality of having a grim or ghastly atmosphere - though Ivan doesn’t think that’s what Sarif intended when he painted Adam’s lovely limbs and his handsome face. are you aware that you sealed away a ghost within his hands? are you aware of his empty eyes?

are you aware are you aware

are you there?

he’s calling, tapping his fingers in a ghastly fashion as the television cycles through the graveyards of baseball games and lives that have been lived and passed and Adam is last

to the party. the confetti is grass. sprawled across the ground and the cake has hardened from being left out. has the poor boy never had a birthday party? Adam toes the deflated balloons thoughtfully - emphasizing the symbolism of death and Ivan thumbs through paperwork stamped with resuscitation and he knows that for at least four seconds that legally, Adam could have been buried in dirt. tossed in the ocean. fed to fish. whatever people do with the ashes

of those they loved. calling different names with surprised eyes when you thought she was dead and you had mourned her and -

well.

Ivan stands with Koller in Adam’s little kitchen, a homemade chocolate cake caught within both of their hands - their lively grins a revival from the afterlife and all it had sought to steal from Jensen. There’s trembling. His smile is gruesome in nature, the boy who had missed candles balling heavily in his eyes and wet around the edges. There’s something simply haunting about domesticity, of devils food and buttercream frosting.

He celebrates mourning with a forkful and a sip of coffee - trying to hide behind his mound of dirt but Ivan sits upon his own grave, torn to pieces by a vicious, zombied will to live. Dead men see nothing and all, especially in each other. 

* * *

**con·se·crate:**

_[ verb ]_

to make or declare something sacred - typically in the early morning hours of god’s divine intervention where mothers mourn their losses and body move in tired spirits of the night before

undisturbed by periods and sanctioned by run-on sentences and the tired fingers that type their woes in unordinary instances and bated breath. there’s staring at hands. hindering. their mechanics whir as the stars look down with their dying eyes and gold glints in windows and the faces of phones with unread text messages - wishing warm and breathing hope.

poetry in motion, flexed as blades and swallowed avocado pits so the poison may move slow. threaded veins and collapsing cries, the sheets are too much and they have to be pushed off in order to worship the lord’s prayers said against skin and cotton woven in thought of egyptians and their own gods

rebirthed from dogs and birds in all their alien nature. watching over rivers and eating alligators. blood runs through the reeds and they drink with drunken glory near warm fireplaces and Adam can’t ever remember feeling so holy. there’s sacrilege in the air scrolling through texts and stories and articles of attacks on sacred grounds and there’s augs trembling in the wake of pulsing stars.

staring up from the sands in wonder.

shifting. winding.

Adam clasps his hands together with Ivan’s and thinks the gods may have felt this warm once in their houses, huddled together in attempts to figure out what worship really was.

* * *

**cher·ry:**

_[ noun ]_

a small, round stone fruit that is typically bright or dark red - maybe this is where the word cheery derived from. bright red cheeks and an embarrassed smile and there’s laughter on his lips and yellow drapes him and there are penguins swimming just beyond the glass at the zoo. his hands are small. skin. and reaching.

though the color is also of blood and the body and he thought that it would look like cherry juice on concrete but it’s really so much stickier and uglier. spread across car parts. it’s all sadness and something silly all at once. childish and sacred. kept close to heart and tasting like iron, there’s panic running towards him and he

doesn’t see it again until he wakes up. looks over. down. everything is still. his arms are rashed red. he wishes that for once he was sleeping that for once he could just close his eyes and spin away

to the time they went cherry picking and his mother sat with him under the trees and told stories. and he watched with his big eyes and skin hands and they spat pits at one another and the sweet taste stained his hoodie and his lips.

breathe. they told him.  
the jello was cherry flavored.   
he lamented over their lack of lemon.

much later when he’s at the market in the middle of cherry season, he buys a bag of cherries. he brings them home. he skips the poetics. he eats the tender flesh. his augged fingers are red and wet with the tender, sweet gore of his speckled associations. Adam partakes, their knees pressed together as they speak of accidents and

incidents. wrapped in newspaper and paperwork and penguins, pillowed up in summer dreams of zoo trips, peeling trees, and time to cherry as they please.

* * *


End file.
